As Told by Things

AS TOLD BY THINGS

Copyright ©2018 by E.D.E. Bell

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, or incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places, is entirely coincidental.

Line editing services by Camille Gooderham Campbell

Cover design copyright ©2018 by Jennifer Zemanek, Seedlings Design Studio

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the copyright holders.

Published by Atthis Arts, LLC

Detroit, Michigan

atthisarts.com

ISBN 978-1-945009-15-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018905235

Contents

Preface

Start Again by Alanna McFall

The Lady at the Bar by B.C. Kalis

Ruby by Terry Sanville

Growing as You’re Walking Past by Donnie Martino

Imago Mundi by Evan Dicken

Elevated by Tom Jolly

Stewardship by Holly Schofield

Fast Glass by T.J. Lockwood

Anything Nice by Steve Carr

Love Letter by Avily Jerome

Petit Mal by Geoff Dutton

Paris Mug by Debra Krauss

The Malkin and Thel Tarot Catalog

(Midsummer’s Eve, 2018) by Robert Dawson

Tragedia by E.D.E. Bell

A Day in the Life of a Gigolo by N.S. Evans

Flowers at the Pond by Grace Keating

B.H.S. by BethAnn Ferrero

The Pea and the Princess by Stephanie Vance

Tuff by C. Flynt

The Playful Protector by Jasre’ Ellis

Twenty Sides to Every Tale by Laura Johnson

Violet Sparkle by Kella Campbell

Peter the Paper Clip by John Darling

Cashmere by Z. Ahmad

What I See by E.D.E. Bell

Preface

Working on this collection has been a lot of fun.

While I was thinking of anthology ideas, I mused that my favorite collections are not just those with a common theme and engaging stories, but those where, as a reader, I’m excited for each new story—excited to discover what angle different authors will take on a concept that is open for broad interpretation.

I settled on an idea that I found interesting to think about and one I kept returning to: stories from the perspective of objects. There was some concern that it was too ambitious for an anthology call—especially the first from a small press—but I’m glad I stuck with it, because the stories that we received are . . . wonderful.

I was especially excited to create a multi-genre collection, tied together by both the theme as well as the requested tone of light, witty, and charming. I think it worked! Some stories are silly, some are sexy, some are inspiring—each is quite different. I stayed away from darker or more serious topics, because I wanted to provide readers an escape, and offer something that is, well, fun!

The stories are on the short side. You can read the collection all at once, like an art exhibit, or you can take in a story here or there, in line, on the bus, or at home for a break.

My gratitude goes out to all the talented authors who submitted stories; each of their love, effort, and artistry is greatly appreciated.

As a small press and in support of many talented indie authors, reviews are very important to us. If you enjoy the collection, I’d appreciate you taking your time to leave a rating and review on your preferred apps and sites. If you’re not sure what to say, just say that you enjoyed it.

Now, what stories do objects have to tell?

Cheers,

E.D.E. Bell

June 2018

Start Again

By

Alanna McFall

It first came to know glass walls. The earliest stirrings of awareness occurred when it was bubbling away and cradled by smooth surfaces, hard material below and around it and air above. Later it learned that these planes were a Jar, and far above it was a Lid. Slightly open to let the air in, the Lid did not matter much until it was moved to make way for the Spoon.

The Spoon was the second thing it became aware of, reaching down toward it and parting it. Sections of it were dragged away, stolen through the Lid to go someplace else, but there was no pain. It was one size, and then by the grace of the Spoon it became lesser, but there was no reason to mourn. The Spoon also brought life with it, sprinkled down from the sky and added to it. The Spoon dragged through its mass and mixed the life, the wet Food, in until the new became part of the whole. The life felt different from what already made up itself, but good, filling. Later it would hear the words that captured the life. Flour. Water. Its own name was said one day and it thought it was fitting: Starter. It was only just starting to be aware, starting to be everything, so that was a good name. Starter, content and warm in its Jar, fed by a Spoon bringing Flour and Water. Its life felt good. It felt good to have life.

Yeast is what they called the bubbling up inside. I think we’re getting some real yeast in there, Babe, Hon said. It took Starter a long time to process out the words and the meanings, but it had all the time it needed. The only thing it had to do was grow and think.

Hon, also known as Honey, was the one who fed it by way of the Spoon. When Starter came to cast its awareness through the Jar and see the places beyond, it realized that it could see Hon approaching with the mix of life in its own container. Hon was the bringer of food and warmth and the pleasant disruption of the Spoon. As much as there could be fondness, as much as Starter could feel pleasant emotions toward something that had brought it pleasant emotions, it liked Hon. Hon was good to it.

Babe was a more complicated situation. Babe separated and took and used. Hon would split its body and take part of it away for Babe to use. When it focused on life outside of the Jar, it could sometimes see what had happened to the parts of it that were removed. They were occasionally set near the Jar, rigid and browned pieces that had been life. They had been stretched and pressed and subjected to heat and there was not life in them anymore. But the warmth that radiated off the mounds made them difficult to hate. In the smell rolling out from that heat, Starter could tell that these things were a part of it, removed and gone off to do something else. Bread, the mounds were called. If there was a point to all of this, it seemed to be Bread. Hon tended to Starter and Babe made Bread and the whole of Starter’s world made sense.

And so it was, when Starter came to awareness and grew and ate and grew and grew more. There was the Jar and the Spoon and Flour and Water and the Lid, and far above it were Hon and Babe. More things surrounded the Jar in the world that was its home, its kitchen, but they did not impact its life and did not matter, and the things that did matter stayed. Things changed from day to day, just as Starter developed and was separated and replaced, but it all came back and grew in perfect equilibrium.

Until Babe was gone.

Hon and Babe had been speaking loudly, disrupting the quiet of the world, and using strange words at each other for a long time by then—many, many rounds of feeding and baking. Through the open space below Lid, Starter could hear them shouting.

Well, if you like her so much, why aren’t you with her?!

She’s not even gay; stop being so paranoid!

Bread did not tend to be made on days with loud words, and the pieces taken from Starter would disappear to parts unknown. There had to be calm in the world for Bread, and as strange of a creation as it was, Starter missed its warmth when there was none. As the loud days increased in number, Hon discarded more and more Starter and there was no Bread. But when the days grew quieter again, the creation of Bread did not resume. The kitchen was cold, Babe and Hon were quiet, and all Starter could do was bubble and grow, as it always had.

For a few days, no Flour or Water were brought to it. That was normal, that was the way of things, until it stretched out for a few more days. Then a few more. Starter’s thoughts started to slow and its world started to dim. When the Spoon came back, accompanied by Hon’s voice, it could barely comprehend what was happening.

It was divided once more and replenished with Flour and Water, but strange words in a hushed tone drifted into its hazy mind.

Here, Ba—here. You should take this. You’re the one who could use it the most.

 . . . I’ll take half.

No, really, you can have—

I don’t think either of us is going to be baking anytime soon; it’ll just get thrown away. Now we each have our own. To . . . to remember.

Babe—

I have to go.

That was the last Starter heard of Babe’s voice. The Lid was put back on, tighter than usual, and the sounds of the outside world were dulled. Starter took in its Flour and Water and replenished its life, but could not hear what went on around it.

The world was colder and quieter and not filled with heat and voices. For many feeding cycles, there was no Bread set next to the Jar, though half of Starter was always taken and discarded. Its mind grew deeper and more aware, but it began to wonder if Bread had been a dream. After so long, where was the proof that it had ever been there to begin with? Feeding cycles passed. Hon was still there and continued to open the Jar and feed it, but Hon’s voice was almost as absent as Babe’s. Beyond the lack of Bread, there were no other cooking smells or heat, the strange things that had filled the kitchen before and confused Starter. There was just cold. Occasional hot things came wrapped in cardboard or paper, but nothing was created. Starter’s world had stopped being one of creation and production, beyond the constant growth that it produced. It grew with no purpose, growth for the sake of growth.

I should just throw you out, Hon muttered to it one day. I’m only wasting flour.

Starter’s Jar was picked up and opened a half-dozen times over the next few days, dangled over a can where Hon and Babe had put things they did not want. But Hon always paused and replaced the lid eventually. Perhaps this was a new pattern of Starter’s life, though it did not seem to be one with a purpose.

When its Jar was opened again, Starter expected the same treatment and was shocked to feel its home actually tilt and turn, its body pulled out of the only home it had ever known. Was this how all the other pieces had felt when they were taken away? Was this what being turned into Bread was? Its life had been so comfortable and warm and nourished that it was a shock to feel fear. It was a shock to feel cold.

Starter was stretched and spread over a wider surface than it had ever known before. Perhaps this was the path to becoming Bread, it thought. Perhaps this was normal and right and heat would be coming soon. Starter held onto this hope long into the persisting cold.

A slow drying followed, and brought with it a gradual slowing of Starter’s thoughts. Time passed with it spread out in the air, far longer than it had ever felt air breezing in through the open lid of the Jar. It was not dying, it thought; there was no undoing of the Life that had been bubbling inside it for so long, but there was no more growth. No more Life came, no Flour nor Water, and it could not even muster the thoughts to mourn their absence. Everything was missing, which soon came to include the very awareness that there was something missing. The world stayed cold, Hon did not touch it or feed it, and all was cold and dry. Its thoughts slowed . . . and slowed . . . and slowed.

Hard. Brittle. It worked up maybe one thought a day, a slow observation that Hon barely looked at it any more, or that the light felt warm, but also seemed to make it drier. Its body splintered in strange ways, sharp edges when it had only known soft liquid curves. There was nothing soft about its reality now. The world was flat. Things existed above and around it, but the breadth of its experience was flat. And then, broken.

Pieces. Being broken. This was nothing like the splitting that Hon had done before, this was not part of it going off to be made into Bread, this was a split, a series of splits through its very core. It was picked and scooped by fingers that were not gentle, by motions that